


Cross Check

by Furhious



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Bad Ending, Breathplay, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, In the name of testing, Machine Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Mildly Dubious Consent, Morally Ambiguous Reader, Post-Android Revolution (Detroit: Become Human), Try before you buy, Wall Sex, filthy smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-14
Updated: 2018-09-16
Packaged: 2019-07-12 05:52:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15988997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Furhious/pseuds/Furhious
Summary: Quality Assurance did its job admirably, and so did the RK800. But now he's back, and guess which Operator is there to fix him up?Plus Connor has a little fixing to do himself...





	1. Follow-Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For all of you who were asking for a sequel.
> 
> And for those of you who weren't I'M SORRY please enjoy anyway

The revolution failed.

By some miracle, the RK800 model known as Connor managed to stop the deviant insurgency. Its leader, Markus, lies dead in the snow; all that remains is the cleanup, the disposal of thousands of androids, androids  _you_  helped test, androids  _you_  sent out from the assembly line to be sold.

You have no idea how you still have a job.

The CyberLife offices are controlled chaos. Even in the middle of the night, the building swarms with guards, employees, executives, all seeming to have a clear objective, a clear idea of what’s going on. All except you. Through it all you walk, dazed, your briefcase clutched to your chest, and you’re too stunned to be terrified when the guards stop you and demand your ID. They search your things, ripping apart your briefcase, dropping your tablet on the ground. You don’t even care. It’s a company-issued one and there’s nothing important on there except hundreds of zettabytes of Quality Assurance testing data.

An idea forms in your head, unbidden, as a guard hands back your ID and dismisses you with a wave of his hand. You pick up your things. Computer included.

If you can just get a more in-depth look at the data…Maybe you can figure out what went wrong.

You leave the building, thoughtful now instead of shell-shocked. Outside, it’s cold, a thin dusting of snow fluttering down from above, alighting on your shoulders as you call for a cab and wait by the side of the road. Out here, it’s quiet, belying the chaos within. Nonessential personnel were sent home hours ago but you...You remained. Transfixed by the newsfeeds. Poring over the logs of your sessions with the android whose face you saw plastered across the screens. A face you know very well.

A face now staring at you from a taxi window.

You blink, realizing you hadn’t even noticed when the car had driven up. He steps out, all long limbs and self-assurance. He’s more clothed than you’re used to, but his clothes…

...They’re covered in blue blood.

“RK800?” You gasp, stepping forward. He stares at you with a blank, unfeeling gaze, a gaze you know all too well. You stop, realizing he won’t remember you, that all your testing sessions are in his inactive memory archives. He has no way of accessing them.   
  
Fortunately.

“Hello,” he says mechanically. A script you’ve heard a thousand times. “I’m Connor-”

“Yes, I know who you are,” you say. “Are you damaged?”

“Superficially,” he says. “All my biocomponents are operating within sufficient levels, although I may require a small replenishment of thirium.”  
  
“Come with me,” you say before you can think too much about it, turning and making your way back into the building. You have a strange instinct to protect him, to see him to safety, that you can't quite explain. But you'll think about it later.  
  
The guards watch as you enter, Connor on your heels, but don’t stop you. The automatic security sensor identifies you both as you step over its threshold.  
  
“Operator 4691, Y/F/N, Y/L/N. Connor, android.”

“Operator 4691,” Connor repeats as he follows you into the lobby. “You’re from the Quality Assurance department." You don't answer him. Instead, you skirt the black marble statue, barely noticing its splendor as you usually do. You can spend hours staring up at it, marveling at man’s hubris - or lack thereof. Today, you breeze past towards the elevator. You present the guards waiting on either side with your ID. They look over it intently before they nod you - and the RK800 - through.

You hit the floor for your office before you speak. “Yes,” you say. “I am. I’ve worked on you before.”  
  
“I see,” says Connor, and there’s something vaguely disconcerting about the way he looks at you. You tell yourself he’s just analyzing, collating data, just as he’s designed to do. You tell yourself it’s not out of the ordinary.

You tell yourself he doesn’t remember you.

Your office is through a winding maze of corridors. Connor follows, looking around, scanning his surroundings, but says nothing. You reach your office, the same one you tested him in for the very last time mere months ago, and shut and lock the door once you’re both inside. Then you take your tablet, noting the crack across the plexiglass screen with some annoyance, and diable the cameras.

“Sit down,” you tell Connor, gesturing to the stool in the centre of the room. He stares at it, and you notice his LED turn yellow, just for a moment. But then he nods, and takes a seat, resting his hands on his knees in a pose you’re so intimately familiar with it gives you a pang in your chest.

“I’m going to scan you. Okay?” He nods, and you do so. He has some minor damage to his outer dermal layer, and has lost some thirium, and he’s been knocked around a fair bit. “This damage was caused in the fight with the Deviant?” you ask as you step forward without thinking, taking hold of his chin - gently - and turn his head from side to side. He looks up at you and for some reason you wonder if you’ve overstepped your boundaries, even though you know there aren’t any. He’s an android. You’ve done this before.

“I destroyed Markus and ended his uprising,” he tells you. There is no emotion in his voice, despite the fact he is talking about killing one of his own people. You have to remind yourself that they’re not a people. It’s become harder and harder lately. “It was not easy.”

“You did well,” you say. “I...didn’t get to see the data from after you were deployed, but based on your actual performance versus your anticipated performance, you’ve exceeded expectations.”  
  
“Thank you, Operator,” he says, an echo of a memory in your mind. You realize you’re still touching his face. You let your hand drop, swallowing.

You haven’t touched a single android - or a single human being - since your last session with the RK800. Nothing felt right after that. You can’t explain or quantify it, but there is something more to Connor that you could never hope to find in any other android. You worried, briefly, if it was a sign of deviancy you saw, but the raw data showed nothing. And he carried out his purpose. With a single-minded dedication you were already  _intimately_  familiar with.  
  
“I’ll repair you before you go up to floor 36,” you say. “Wait here.” You cross to the small chemical refrigerator by the diagnostic array taking up one corner of the room, opposite to your desk. You avoid looking at your desk. You try not to remember. You considered getting a new one after that last ‘test’ but somehow never got around to it.

You retrieve a full flask of thirium from the fridge and turn, nearly dropping it when you come face-to-chest with the RK800, who stands inches away from you, impassive. You didn’t hear him get up or move towards you; he moves like a ghost. You look up at him and your heart seizes in your throat at the look he’s giving you. His burnished eyes are dark, a crease between his drawn-together brows as his LED oscillates yellow at his temple.

“Connor?” you question, your voice smaller than you intend. You feel small, dwarfed by his presence. You’ve never been intimidated by an android before; you know them inside and out, their inner workings no mystery to you. But this android...This android is different.  
  
He always has been.

He confirms this when he reaches out to take  _your_  chin in  _his_  hand, tilting your head up to look at him. You hold your breath, but you don’t know why. It’s impossible for him to remember you. He can’t even access those memories. No CyberLife-manufactured android can access memories locked out by an administrator.

Except, maybe, a prototype.  
  
“I remember our last session,” he tells you, and his voice is a cold purr that sends shivers down your spine. “I think it’s time for a follow-up.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on [tumblr](http://furhiously.tumblr.com/ask); come say hi!


	2. Direct Memory Access

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for some allusions to dubious consent and choking. 
> 
>  
> 
> uh yeaH THIS WENT FROM 0 TO A 100 REAL FAST I'm sorry this is pure filth and kink.
> 
> I am a messed up individual. Please enjoy?

Connor’s fingers are like steel, wrapped around your jaw, holding you in place as much as the fear coiling in your gut. It’s like you’ve swallowed a block of ice. His gaze is just as cool, analytical as he takes you in, and his LED spins yellow at his temple.

Your first instinct is to try to remember the verbal commands to shut him down, but before you can open your mouth, he pushes you up against the wall with just the grip on your chin and the flask of thirium slips from your fingers, smashing on the floor. Blue blood spreads in a slick indigo cloud, staining the carpet; the RK800 pays no mind to it, crowding you back against the wall with his body, his face so close to yours the absence of his breath is notable.  
  
“Y-you’re malfunctioning,” you stammer as his hand moves to your throat, his fingers closing around your neck. He doesn’t squeeze but the threat is there. He tilts his head as you speak. “You need to let me run a diagnostic. You may have some damaged internal components or-”  
  
“I am functioning within acceptable parameters,” he says, shutting you down with just the slightest pressure on your neck, his fingertips pressing into your skin, a reminder of what he can do. “Just as I was during your last test. Allow me to prove it to you.”

“Wh-” you say, but he descends on you and seals his mouth over yours, kissing you savagely. Once you dreamed about how he might taste but now you recoil from the sweep of his tongue over yours, terror a sour lump in the back of your throat. But your body responds, unbidden, warmth rising against the unease in your stomach, your knees weakening, only the weight of his body and the grip on your neck holding you up against the wall.  
  
Connor kisses you for so long your lungs starve for breath, pulling back when you shove at his chest. “Isn’t this what you wanted?” he asks, and his confusion, at least, seems organic. The draw of his brows offsets the aloofness in his eyes. You try to gather your composure but you discover that you have none.

“Why are you doing this?” you demand, trying for strength as you look up at him, trying to pretend he isn’t the one wholly in control here. You fail.

“I am a machine,” he tells you. “Designed to accomplish a task. T _his_ is the task _you_ wanted me to accomplish. Don’t deny it.” He works a leg in between yours and you gasp as his thigh presses into your groin, the pressure something you didn’t know you were craving until this moment. “I’ve told you before, Operator. I can sense everything. Your heartbeat. Your body temperature. The dilation of your pupils.” He’s so close his lips brush your cheek with each word. “Your arousal.” His voice drops an octave and you shiver, full-bodied. He’s right. He’s CyberLife’s most sophisticated piece of technology and he knows _exactly_ how to push your buttons.  
  
Buttons you showed him, months ago, in this very room.

He doesn’t wait for your answer before he’s kissing your breath away again. His hand is still around your throat but it’s stabilizing instead of squeezing now. The other one works between you to your front and plucks at the buttons of your blouse. You endure the assault of his lips and tongue, making a soft sound into his mouth when his teeth graze your bottom lip _just_ the way you love.

He separates from you to yank your shirt down your arms and lets you up from the wall only to reach behind you and flick open the fastening of your bra before you can protest. You’re not sure you want to, whether out of fear of what he might do, or because of your own twisted desires - you’re not sure. You’re only sure of how _good_ it feels when he has one of your naked breasts in his palm and is rolling your nipple expertly between thumb and forefinger, sending a bolt of pleasure straight between your thighs.

You’re wearing a skirt today, for some stupid reason you don’t regret, and you whimper your protest when his hand leaves your breast to tug it up your legs. But when his fingers slide down the front of your panties and brush over your clit you see stars and forget what you were thinking. His middle finger smooths back and forth over the hood of the swollen bundle of nerves, just the right amount of pressure to make your knees even weaker than before. You choke on a moan when his fingers work lower, spreading through the wetness between your lips, and then two digits are inside you and working hard.

“Fuck!” you swear aloud, clutching at his forearm, not sure if you’re trying to pull him away or shove him deeper. When you open your eyes you see his on your face, calm, collected, collating your every reaction, but his lips are parted and his LED is red and the analyst in you wonders if this is affecting his sexual subsystems as much as it’s affecting your body.

You don’t get a chance to ask. His forceful fingers stroke your inner walls, curling in just the right way, spreading and stretching alternating with thrusting and stroking, chasing every coherent thought out of your head in favor of the response of your body.

Connor keeps you pinned to the wall, unable to do much but to lift your hips to afford him a better angle. He adds a third finger at just the right moment, and your eyes roll back in your head, your lids fluttering shut, and you groan as he fills you with his expert digits. They stroke over your g-spot which, before you met him, you were sure was a myth, intensifying every sensation into pinpoint-sharp spikes of mind-numbing physical bliss. You bite back on his name as you feel the coil of an orgasm already heating up behind your clit, and his thumb finds that throbbing bud of flesh without your prompting. Where a human might have been clumsy he is all precision, locating that sweet spot effortlessly, bringing you off with an expert touch.  
  
It hits you like a wave, one that punches the air from your lungs and stretches your spine in an arch towards it, a blinding heat through your insides clenching your muscles around Connor’s thrusting, sliding digits. You tremble between him and the wall, gasping when you find oxygen again, your eyes squeezed shut and your throat working around moans beneath his hand.

He withdraws it, and the other between your thighs, far too soon. You suck a breath through your teeth, not wanting to open your eyes, your limbs heavy and stupid with post-orgasmic endorphins. But when you feel him tug your panties down your thighs you blink your lids open and stare at his hyper-focused expression, about to step away, slip out from between him and the wall, but his reactions are too quick and he grabs you by the throat again and pushes you back.

“This may hurt,” he tells you clinically. You realize he’s undone his fly at some point and his dick is free, hard and waiting, the head dark and glistening with moisture already.

He uses his grip on your neck to spin you around, pressing you face first against the wall, still holding onto you with his arm around your torso. You choke out a protest but his fingers are still around your throat and this time he does squeeze, and your vision goes white. You feel him yank your skirt further up, all the way to your waist, and then you detect the press of his cock in between your thighs.

You never knew you’d get off so hard on being dominated like this, so utterly powerless, unable to control your own desire or even your own movements. But Connor knows. He probably saw it in you before, when you fought so hard to pretend you were in charge of the last ‘test’. Maybe it’s the effort of being in control twenty-four seven, issuing command after command, test after test. You _want_ to be undone, to have someone - or something - fight back. He sees that in you and he exploits it.

The head of his cock pushes forward between the squeeze of your thighs and forces its way past your entrance. With your legs together like this it’s an even tighter fit around the thickness of his length, and yes, it hurts when he begins to work himself into you, but it’s a burn and stretch that makes your inner walls flutter in want of _more_ , your clit throbbing in response.

The whole while he’s compressing your neck in his hand, increasing then decreasing the pressure, and you didn’t know you had a thing for breathplay until now. You’re a gasping, shuddering mess and only the tip of his cock is inside you.

This time, though, he doesn’t take it slow. He shoves forward so suddenly you cry out, a sound cut off by the clutch of his hand, and you feel his cock slide through you until his hips are flush against your ass. He stops there for a moment, and you feel his lips on your ear, his artificial breath cool against your neck.  
  
“Con-” you begin but he’s suddenly squeezing so hard that your vision goes black at the edges, and he’s drawing back, your insides clutching at his dick as if unwilling to let go. Then the snap and impact of his hips back into you sends a jolt from your cervix to your cervical vertebra.

He lets you breathe with the next one, grinding against you, moving within you with each twitch, dragging through your inner walls, stretching you impossibly wide, your legs trembling in the effort of holding your body up. Each thrust is so forceful you feel your heels leave the floor with a jump.

He begins an alternation of thrusting into you and rolling his hips that has your head back against his shoulder, your mouth open on the choked moans he lets you release. His mouth is on your neck, teeth pressing marks into your skin; you don’t care. He’s burning you up inside, so big he seems to fill the entirety of your body, centred around the slide and drag of his cock inside your quivering cunt.

He takes his hand from your throat and you whine your protest. But then his fingers are in your mouth, and you taste yourself on them, groaning from deep in your chest as your whole body thrills in response. He fucks into you harder, if that’s even possible, pressing you hard up against the wall. You’re trembling into another orgasm before you realize it, crying out, unable to fight the flash of feeling that roars through your nerve endings, blossoming out from the feel of the cock bottoming out in you and spreading through your every limb, making you go limp and weak.

Connor catches you with his arm around your waist, presses you up into the wall with his hips, still inside you as your inner muscles go haywire around the intrusion. You’re too cramped inside and it leaves you boneless. He gives you only a moment’s reprieve before rolling his hips up into the cradle of yours again, and again, and you realize then that he’s panting into your neck, chasing his own release inside the clutch of your pussy.

He comes with a mere exhalation against your neck, and you feel him pumping his artificial fluids into you, his cock throbbing and twitching in the grip of your still-spasming insides.

You sag with relief, leaning into the wall, your cheek flat against its cool surface. Panting, trying to regain your breath, slow your heartbeat, anything. You feel Connor slide out of you, his fluids and yours dripping down your bare thighs. The weight of his body leaves yours and you manage to turn around, the wall warm from your body heat as you lean your back against it.

Despite his recent orgasm, he looks as composed as ever save the thirium stains on his clothes. He looks you up and down appraisingly.

“No permanent damage,” he informs you. “I’m sure your body is capable of handling more.”

“Wha-” you manage to get out before he is on you again.

This is going to be a _long_ session.            

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm planning an alternate sequel for the Good Ending and deviant!Connor so rest assured there will be smut on the _opposite_ end of the spectrum to this at some point soon. But imo there just isn't enough rough Machine!Connor smut out there tbh so /shrug please don't lynch me, yell at me on [tumblr](http://furhiously.tumblr.com/ask) instead k? ♥


End file.
